


Thicker Than Water

by pedanticsoothsayer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pedanticsoothsayer/pseuds/pedanticsoothsayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On hiatus indefinitely - will probably rework existing chapters before proceeding</p><p>Thrown into a destiny she could never have predicted, Lianore Amell struggles to come to terms with her decisions as she tries to embrace the unknown future before her. Facing a Blight with nothing except her instincts and a handful of strangers, the inexperienced mage Warden must do everything in her power to prevent the world that condemns her existence from being thrown into chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue:  
>  _Let the blade pass through the flesh,_  
>  _Let my blood touch the ground,_  
>  _Let my cries touch their hearts._  
>  _Let mine be the last sacrifice._  
>  -Andraste 7:12

It was a journey that started with a tower.

 

A refuge and a prison, it held more of her than she cared to admit. Her triumph and regret, her fondest memories and greatest failures. She knew its halls and its stairs, its walls and its secrets. In fact, it was all she had ever known.

 

It was all she had known and once it disappeared beyond the horizon, that towering spire all but committed to memory, she stared forward into the unknown.

 

And into the unknown she went.

 

\---

 

The cobbled road she traveled was hot and dry, cracking beneath the sun’s baking heat. Whenever carts drove past, dirt was kicked up into the air, covering her in another layer of dust as she stumbled alongside the curb. At least that’s what she thought it was called. She realized it was a strange oversight in her education. To be taught what a word represented and what it meant, but never what it actually looked like. Not that it was anything impressive. Just several layers of stones stacked up along the sides of the highway that she kept bumping into when jumping out of the way of charging oxen. It was something new, nonetheless.

 

Perhaps traveling would not have been so taxing had her feet not grown so swollen. The sun had risen far above her head, making her curse her thick robes and heavy pack. Still, she shuffled along, struggling to recall a time she had been so exhausted. At the moment, distracted by her blisters and aching body, she couldn’t.

 

Lianore Amell closed her eyes and imagined.

 

The library would be cool, if she had still been at the Circle tower. The sun was much more forgiving beneath thick, stone walls. Dim candlelight would have provided more than enough light for an afternoon of reading and maybe even into the night if she couldn’t sleep. She could almost picture herself pouring over another tome, the scent of mold and ancient secrets filling the room. There had been a treatise on the feasibility of making use of magic for transportation she’d been wanting to read. Like any sensible mage, she knew the answer was no, but it was still interesting to consider the theory behind why.

It was red. A coarse cover, but tightly bound. She had taken it with her, planning on returning it eventually. It wasn’t explicitly forbidden, just generally frowned upon. Harrowings and maleficars had just gotten in the way.

 

Shaking her head, Lianore thought quickly back to the book. Perhaps it was still there, tucked under her bed. After all, she hadn’t even had a chance to move her things out of the apprentice quarters, let alone take it with. Blights and stuffy Grey Wardens didn’t wait for packing mages. It would have been nice though, to have something from home.

 

Another coughing fit interrupted her quiet thoughts.

 

A firm pat on the back startled her. Her guardian held out a canteen of water and she took a soothing drink as soon as she could pull the cap off. She nodded silently, handing it back. He nodded as well and placed it back in his pack.

 

As far as she could tell, Duncan was a man of few, but profound words. Their march was a solemn one, permeated by her initial reluctance to be recruited at all. She hadn’t spoken much at all, shamed and embarrassed. She deserved punishment for Jowan’s escape, she believed. Coming with the Grey Warden had felt like a cop-out, not that she had any say in the matter.

 

There had been many chances for her to tell the First Enchanter about her friend’s plan and she almost did. She had been talking to him. He had asked if there was anything else and she had lied. Lied to his face. She cursed herself for it even now, even though there wasn’t anything she could possibly do about it. What had she expected? Even if Jowan and his beloved had escaped, she still would have faced consequences once the templars realized he was gone.

 

Despite her best efforts, here she was. Indentured to an order she knew very little about, while an innocent woman was shipped off to prison and that lying idiot walked free. For now, it was best not to dwell on the past, as she walked in silence, fretting that her salvation just might be a punishment worse than death.

 

It hadn’t been a good first impression. Not that Duncan would clue her in to the workings of his thoughts. Since they’d ridden the ferry across Lake Calenhad, to the side of its shores she hadn’t walked on in years, he remained mostly in a disapproving silence. Or so she thought.

 

“You seem contemplative.”

“I get that a lot.” It wasn’t a difficult observation to make, but she nodded. “I’ve a lot on my mind.”

“It has only been a few days,” Duncan said. “I imagine that this is not an easy journey, for many reasons.”

 

The way he said it made her think he wasn’t talking about foot sores.

 

“I don’t remember the sky being so big,” she admitted. “Or the air being this fresh.”

“You’ll get used to it, in time. It won’t be easy, but I know you’ll come to terms with it.”

 

That same feeling told her he wasn’t talking about the weather either.

 

“What will become of me once we reach camp?” Lianore said, now that conversation had opened up.

“I plan on things being quite hectic once we arrive,” Duncan said, “but after take care of a few matters, you’ll be able to settle in and get acquainted with the rest of the Order.”  
“But you’re bringing me here as a criminal, won’t I be locked up or...?”

Duncan gave a deep chuckle and put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll find that the Grey Wardens draw our ranks from men and women from all walks of life. Even criminals, as you say. Whatever the reason, all are welcome. Your past will not matter, as difficult an idea as that may be to grasp.”

She shuddered as he gave her that soul-searching look, as if he could read her thoughts.

 

“We all have burdens we carry with us,” he continued. “But instead of letting them weigh us down, we can find peace. A second chance, for whatever reason, and we can make the best of it. I will leave you be, for now. It’s probably not what you want to hear.”

“No, it helps,” she admitted. “I will think on it more.”

“You’ll have plenty of time, as I said, in the weeks to come. Perhaps speak to some of the Warden’s at camp once we arrive? Most are more than willing to help recruits along.”

 

She appreciated his words, she really did. Now if only they could get rid of the gnawing guilt that was eating away at her chest, then maybe she could focus on the journey ahead. Part of her wanted to tell the man every thing on her mind, but she also didn’t want to make him wary of her. Best just to listen for now. Listen and ignore her sore feet. While comfortable, a mage’s shoes were not made for durability.

 

Another farmer rode past, offering a tip of his hat as his laden cart carried dust into the air.

 

“It will get better as we head south,” Duncan assured the coughing mage.

“I could do with out all of this walking,” Lianore sighed.

“You’ll get used to it.”

 

\---

 

The first night Lianore spent in the tower, she woke up screaming.

 

She’d had nightmares before, even before her magic revealed itself, but none had felt this real. The images were fleeting, disjointed. It started off like a memory. She recalled the gigantic, wooden doors closing, her father standing motionless on the other side, no readable expression on his face. She wanted to run to him, but the man with the kind face holding her hand wouldn’t let her. Whatever he said, she couldn’t hear as she wriggled away, just missing freedom. She banged desperately on the doors, shouting and crying. The men, the ones in the funny robes and the scary armor, tried to pry her away, but then the floor swallowed her up.

It was dark and scary. And she was alone. Voices filled her head, taunting her, reminding her.

 

He left you. Without a second thought. He left you here. Left you with them. Abandoned. Unwanted. They don’t understand. They’ll and make you forget, but doesn’t it make you angry? Betrayed. Hurt.

 

She sat in the darkness, rocking back and forth as the voices grew louder.

 

But we can help you. Use your anger, child, your rage. It has power. Let us in and we can help. 

 

She was drenched in sweat when she snapped out of it. It had been hard enough falling asleep, the tender warmth of her father’s hand still lingering in hers. She looked around wildly. Everything was dark and unfamiliar and she shook, frightened by the dream that had already begun to fade from her mind.

 

“Be quiet.”

A head peaked out from the bunk above Lianore’s bed, barely visible in the dark.

 

It only caused Lianore to sob harder.

Other children were beginning to stir, while many of the older apprentices pulled pillows over their ears with a groan of “not another one.” With a sigh, the girl hopped down with a gratuitous thud and grabbed Lianore’s hand. Irritated, she pulled her out into the hallway. The sudden bright light made her cry harder, terrified and helpless.

 

The girl waited, rather impatiently, until the child’s tears slowed.

 

She had sharp, elven features with pouty lips and wild, blue eyes that could, for all Lianore knew, cut through stone. Her skin was a rich chestnut color, tinged with silver as if lyrium flowed beneath it instead of blood. She even had an aura about her that seemed to suggest it. By just standing next to her, it was clear the elf girl commanded much power.

 

“Done?” she said.

Lianore nodded timidly.

“Good. Got a name, kid?”

Instead of responding, she rubbed her face on her sleeve and sniffled.

“Not very chatty, are you?”

Lianore shook her head.

“Well you can’t be completely useless, if they brought you here. If there’s one thing those templars don’t mess up with, it’s mages.”

 

She continued, fiddling with a piece of black hair. “They only brought you in today, didn’t they? It’s rough, but you’ll get over it.”

“I want Papa.”  
“Andraste’s knickers, she talks!”

 

Not one for bedside manner, the elf continued. “He’s not coming, kid.”

Blinking up at her, Lianore frowned. “Why?”

The elf sighed. “The youngest ones always ask the most questions. How do I...? Alright, so you do know what magic is, right?

The younger girl nodded again.

“Good. Had to explain it to that Florian kid a while back. A dense one, that one. Anyways, well you know how you can do stuff with it? Make weird things happen?”

“I started a fire once,” Lianore mumbled.

“That’s pretty common,” the elf concurred. “Set a vhenadahl on fire, myself. They’ll kick you out of the alienage for that, if you’re anyone else. If you’re a mage kid with no family, they just hand you to the templars and are done with it. But so there, we do dangerous stuff so important people say we have to be locked up to protect the normal folks. Not fair, but there it is.”

“But why?”

“I just said, kid. The Chantry doesn’t want us hurting people, so we get put here so we learn to control it and have less of a chance of becoming an abomination.”

“What’s an abnoninatum?”

The elf girl made a face. “You ask a lot of questions for a-” She paused. “How old did you say you were?”  
“Seven.”

“Yikes. Anywho, you ask a lot of questions for a little kid. But you’re not as funny looking like most humans, so maybe I’ll keep you around. Call me Bethli,” she ordered.

“That’s a funny name.” Lianore giggled, softly. Her eyes were still puffy, but a smile had snuck its way onto her face.

“Heck of a lot shorter than Bethlisse Surana, so you’d better use it. Since you’re talking, you going tell me yours?”

“I’m Lianore!”

Bethli opened the door to the dormitory, grinning down at the blonde little girl. “Alrighty, Lia, you head back up to sleep before someone comes and yells at us for being out of bed.”

 

As she scrambled back into the room, Lianore had all but forgotten her nightmare.

 

\---

 

Patiently, Lianore sat on the wet grass as she watched Duncan labor over the fire. While still rumbling, the clouds overhead had stopped the torrential downpour that had plagued them for several days. At this point, she didn’t even feel wet, though her clothes were practically plastered to her skin. She sorted through supplies, discarding anything that had not survived the storm.

“Would you like some help?” she said after several minutes of silence, save for the frustrated sounds of striking flint.

“This wood is soaked through,” Duncan said. “There is little we can do at this point, besides wring out our blankets and hope for warmer winds.”

“Could I try something?” Lianore asked, ready to do whatever it would take to get some warmth.

 

He stood back as she approached the makeshift fire scar and knelt down. As she raised her hands, a warm glow emanated from them, small flames dancing across her fingertips. Duncan was right, the firewood they had gathered was drenched, but she did her best to dry it out by magic. It was tedious and definitely worth it. Within twenty minutes, she had the campfire roaring.

“Ingenious,” Duncan said, rubbing his chin.

It took a lot of strength to hide her grinning face.

“I don’t suppose you’re inclined for cooking magically as well?”

“Not yet,” Lianore admitted. “So I guess it’s your turn.”

 

She watched carefully as he took what salvageable food they had left and prepared a meager meal, “fit for a Grey Warden” he assured her. Despite the soggy bread and stale meat, it was the greatest warm meal Lianore had ever eaten.

 

Once the food was gone and the sun had set, the fire, or her fire as she liked to think of it, kept them warm and marginally drier. It was only once she stopped moving that she started to ache these days. As soon as there was nothing to fuss over, her feet in particular burned with nothing to take her mind off of it. Sitting felt unnatural and even lying down just caused more pain than relief. Even more so, doing nothing gave her too much time to think.

 

She had already lost track of how long they’d been traveling, though the open fields of the Bannorn had given way to countless trees. A forest. A real forest. She’d admitted to Duncan that she’d never seen one before, though he assured her that this was nothing compared to what lay further south. Save for natural forces and the occasional stray wolf, it had been an uneventful journey.

 

“Something has just occurred to me,” Duncan said, after the standard post-dinner silence. “You’ve never fought, even in self-defense, have you?”

“Outside of very basic sparring, no,” Lianore admitted, figuring Fade demons weren’t what he was talking about.

“That will change quickly. It’s surprising we haven’t run into more dangers, though also very lucky, I suppose. The further we go, the more likely it will be that we will encounter bandits. Or worse. Would you like to practice?”

“I would appreciate that.”

“Good. Hopefully, one day, you’ll be able to study more with another mage Warden, but for now your basic training will suffice.” Without a pause, he drew his sword.

  
“Wait, right now?”

“Do you have a better time?” he asked.

 

Not wanted to admit to her tiredness, she shook her head and reached for her staff. She had barely felt the cool touch of the initiate’s weapon, when he lunged at her. Lianore was surprised at how quickly she was able to jump out of the way, though it was by no means a graceful movement. She raised a barrier around herself, blocking most of his blows. Heart racing, she found evading his attacks quite easy, though age was certainly in her favor. She ducked and leaped around his blade and the surrounding trees, not sure if he was holding back or not.

 

“You’ll have to go on the offensive,” he told her, a well-placed swing missing her elbow by a hair. “Unless you hope me to drop from exhaustion first.”  
“I was considering it!” she called back.

He chuckled and swung again.

 

With a twirl of her staff, she sent flames in his direction in an attempt to slow him down. She found the motions second nature, after years of practice, but struggled to keep up any spell for more that a couple seconds before her concentration broke. Cursing him with every breath, her movements became slower and slower. Several more close calls and she found herself using her staff more for support than as a weapon. A moment’s break was all he needed.

 

The flat side of his sword slammed into her side, knocking the air out of her. Gasping for breath, she panted on the ground, not eager to face the disappointment that surely lined his face. Instead, when she looked up, he offered a hand out to her. Lianore groaned as he pulled her to her feet.

 

“Not bad,” he said, handing her a healing poultice.

She mumbled what could have been a thanks, or a string of profanities, and began addressing her wound. She didn’t even need to look at it to know it would be bruised by morning. A deep breath and a drink of the strong potion, and some of the edge was gone

“I certainly hadn’t expected you to keep up for so long,” he admitted and sat down for a rest to catch his own breath.

“Really?”  
“You’ll have a lot of work to do, but you’re well on your way.”

Holding her side, she hesitated to ask, “I’ll assume we don’t have time to sleep in tomorrow?”

“You’re catching on quickly.”

 

\---

 

Lianore rolled up her bedroll as fast as she could, stumbling over the clasps in frustration. She pulled on her canary yellow robes over her shift and gathered stay supplies while trying to brush her hair. She mumbled out morning’s greetings to Duncan while she finished packing everything into her bag.

 

“Why the hurry?” he asked, torn between amusement and concern. “I haven’t see you move so quickly since we almost tipped into the lake.”

“We should get going,” she said, kicking dirt over the dying embers of last night’s fire. “You said it yourself that we could make Ostagar in two more days if we keep pace.”

“True, but you seem panicked. We are in no danger at the moment and the sun has barely risen. Is everything okay?”

“Bad dreams last night,” she muttered, not making eye contact with him. Maybe if she could avoid his practically mind-reading gaze, she wouldn’t be such an open book.

 

He began making preparations to leave beside her, though much less fast-paced. With a groan, he cited age, but even Lianore could tell he was stalling. The air was cold, uninviting, but her muscles did not creak as much from the strain of their journey. Protected by large fireplaces and a kinder climate back home, she’d never felt chills like this. Ice formed even on the edges of plants, cracking beneath their boots as they continued forward. Now, for the first time, she saw the sense in heavy robes, though they didn’t keep her entirely warm. From the ice that formed on his armor, she assumed Duncan fared no better.

 

She would catch his gaze once and a while, while finishing tidying up camp, fully aware he was watching her with caution.

“I know that mages are often tempted by demons in their sleep,” Duncan pointed out.

“It’s the first thing they teach us about, really I’m fine. It’s nothing new.”

“So this was the case?”

“Yes, but as you can probably see, I’m not an abomination.”

“Of course. Forgive me, I am just curious. Is it difficult?”

“It isn’t really. I mean, as you get older they get craftier, but you just have to learn quicker than they can. You can’t trust anything in the Fade.”

“I see. How does one learn to defend them self from such a threat?”

 

Now that he mentioned it, Lianore had never really thought about it before. It was just routine now. She could still enjoy dreams, as long as they weren’t the kind that made her wake up in a cold sweat, but she had to be aware of what was going on around her.

 

“You’ve got to be conscious,” she told him. “You can’t accept offers from anyone while you’re asleep, even if it looks like your mother. Most demons are easy enough to figure out, but the more powerful they are, the more cunning they can be.”

“Is it really that easy?”

Lianore slung the packed back over her shoulder. “To become possessed? Yes.”

 

One last sweep of camp to make sure nothing was left behind, and they were on their way before the sun cleared the treeline. They had entered the Wilds nearly a week before and the temperature change was immediately obvious. Though her robes kept her warm, there was little Lianore could do to keep her face from being cold. Once and while, she sent tiny sparks from her fingers to keep them from freezing. Whenever Duncan noticed the little trick, he chuckled to himself, but the concerned look on his face never faded.

 

She felt ashamed. Wishing she hadn’t said anything, it was clear to her his seemingly casual attitude towards magic had faded as soon as possession was brought up. Always good to be reminded she was dangerous, especially now that there weren’t any templars about. It hadn’t even been a powerful demon, even if it had stirred up memories she wanted to avoid. Weeks of traveling, and she was still consumed by regret, confusion. With each step further from the Circle, she was more convinced than ever that she had made the wrong choice.

 

“Is it rude to ask what temptation you faced?” Duncan eventually asked, interrupting her contemplative thoughts.

“I don’t know. We never talked about it much at the Circle, but that was because everyone dealt with it. There wasn’t much to be said.”

 

In truth, she didn’t want to talk about it, but she knew his curiosity wouldn’t fade. She sighed, releasing a puff of frosty air, and tried not to sound too worried.

 

“My dream had to do with Jowan,” Lianore admitted.

“Your friend from the Circle?”

“Yes. It was something silly, but I could feel the demon’s presence, trying to get me mad at him.”

“A rage demon then?”

“It’s likely.”

 

“You seem rather unnerved, despite this being a regular occurrence, as you say.”

“I haven’t been careful enough.” She knew that she needed more than a simple answer, but was reluctant to go further. “I’m still confused over what happened back at the Circle. It was all over so quickly... I don’t know what to think, and that uncertainty can be dangerous.”

“I may not have answers, but I could listen if you would like,” Duncan offered.

“I still can’t believe that he lied to me,” Lianore said. “That he would do something so... dangerous. Sometimes, I feel like I did the right thing, but others I know that I made a mistake.”

“You helped a friend, there is no denying that. Your methods, while well-intentioned, may have been flawed. Either way, there is nothing you can do now. He is no longer your responsibility.”

“But he was my friend,” Lianore protested. “If not for him...”

“If you’re looking to place the blame solely on his shoulders, you will find no sympathy here. As I recall, he did not escape the tower without help.”

Biting her lip, Lianore resigned with a nod and slung her bag over her shoulder, weary eyes indicating that it was time to continue.


	2. A Mage By Any Other Name

When she first spotted the towering ruins of Ostagar rising above the treeline, it had been a moment of relief. A beacon of hope against the twilit sky. As Lianore helped set up camp that evening, she couldn’t hide her excitement. Duncan warned her they had at least one more day of traveling ahead of them, but nothing, not even losing another sparring match or getting chased by wolves, could dampen her mood.

 

Rubbing her shoulder, a marked improvement since she’d only caught the hilt and not the blade this time, Lianore settled in besides the campfire and watched the smoke drift lazily up into the sky. Duncan insisted on keeping longer watches at night since they had entered darkspawn territory. He sat in silence, staring off into the night while urging her to rest. Except for the crackling fire, the forest had grown unpleasantly quiet. Even the wildlife had grown still.

 

She was used to quiet. In the tower, the dormitories were silent at night. No one slept well, but there wasn’t anything to do about it. It did more damage to react to the dreams and call attention to yourself. Better to lay in insomnia than catch the eye of a templar on the midnight guard.

 

“You should get all of the rest you can,” Duncan cautioned her, noticing her alertness.

“I’m laying down, aren’t I?”

He made a slight noise of disapproval, but he didn’t say anything further.

 

He looked very gaunt in the dim light, the flame’s brightness flickering off of his dark skin, exaggerating the lines on his face with warmth, but exaggerating them none the less. Lianore realized she hadn’t asked much about him, not even knowing his age. She knew he walked laboriously, and his oft silence spoke to his weariness more than anything. There had never been an opportunity. Not yet, at least.

 

Not that she had been forthcoming. Especially since talk of demons came up, she became very aware of the staff she carried on her shoulder. If this was the reaction of one man...

 

She must have looked troubled, because Duncan continued.

 

“Are you nervous?”  
“That’s part of it,” Lianore said. “I’m not sure what to expect. Or what people will expect of me.”

“For the most part, they should be plenty busy with their own tasks. No one should bother you, or even notice you really. We will have to see how many lords make the trip, but you may see the king about. He ought to be busy with preparations, however... He’s not a man easily described. Enthusiastic might be the best word. You don’t need to worry about formalities. As far as nobility goes, he’s very relaxed, though you would do well to be respectful nonetheless.”

“Of course.”

“Other than that, rest assured the other Wardens will be curious, but too busy to cause you too much grief. Hopefully. They’re a good lot of men. Perhaps too loud sometimes, but well-intentioned.” His wary face softened, if only for a moment. “Does that put you at ease at all?”  
Taking the hint, Lianore nodded.

“Good. Off to sleep, then.” He paused, eyebrows furrowed. “May your dreams be... well I hope they’re easier than they’ve been.”

 

Lianore went to pull the covers over her head, but stopped. “Duncan?”  
She could hear his sigh from across the clearing. “Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you... for everything.”  
Perhaps it was just the fire, but his eyes shone brighter than usual.

“Rest now.”

 

\---

 

She dreamed of many things. Of stone towers and ancient cities, Blighted lands and Wardens on griffons like in the old stories her mother used to tell. Her mother. She’d been there too.

 

She didn’t have any memories of Mama, at least not concrete ones. There were just pieces. Thick auburn hair braided with flowers, a reserved smile that lit up the room, voice softer than Chantry bells and hands just as busy. She’d been an herbalist like Papa, hadn’t she?

 

When she turned to look, to embrace her or tell her she’d missed her, Enchanter Minevra stood in her place. Just as dumpy and austere as ever, she shouted at her to hit the books. Her theory exam was in less than a week after all. The Enchanter shoved a pile of tomes into her arms and shook her staff, pushing her through an open door and into the library.

 

She brought the books to a table where Bethli sat, bent over a dozen or so more and holding a candle. Wax dripped onto her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Lights are out again. Kelli just went to find a Tranquil to fix them,” she said, not even bothering to look up.

  
A few moments passed before she spoke up again. “Well those books aren’t going to study themselves. Get going, kid.”

“Bethli, you never study,” Lia said cautiously.

Ignoring her, the dream Bethli said, “Hey, well if you want Jowan to get higher marks go ahead.”

“I’m right here!” Jowan shouted, suddenly sitting across the table from her.

Head still fuzzy from the Fade, Lianore sat down. She was dreaming, wasn’t she? But what had happened to the griffons?

 

“I wish I didn’t have to study like you,” Jowan whined. “You always do well.”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s terribly smart and talented,” Bethli said. “And you know it, don’t you?”

“I-” Lianore paused.

“Of course she does,” Jowan said. “Just look at her. So confident. I wish...”

 

Standing abruptly, Lianore moved for the door hands over her ears. Not again. It always had to be them. She made it to the door this time and slammed it shut. When she’d had the dream before, she hadn’t been so lucky. She pinched her arm, ignoring the noises on the other side of the door. Wake up, wake up damn it.

 

She woke up disoriented, blinking rapidly at the campfire. Duncan didn’t notice, or he didn’t show it. Her heart slowed down after a few deep breaths.

 

“My turn yet?” she asked.

“Are you sure?” Duncan said, turning around.

“I could use a break,” she said, smiling weakly.

 

She expected revulsion, or at least discomfort, but his face showed only concern. Instead of giving up his post, he insisted they sit around the fire.

 

“I am sorry this bothers you. Is there anything that I can do?” he said.

She shook her head.

“You may find becoming a Warden to be a suitable distraction.” His face shown with empathy, but he didn’t care to explain what he meant. She’d learned quickly that, for all of his apparent helpfulness, Duncan preferred to remain mysterious. Questions were only answered with more questions.

 

“I don’t know how you can do it,” Duncan admitted. “Life as a mage can’t be easy.”

“Have you known many mages?” she asked and pulled the blanket closer around her.

“A few. Ferelden does not have any mage Wardens, but I know several... I have always admired the tenacity it requires. They are two lives not easily rectified.”

“That’s not a sentiment many share,” Lianore pointed out. “Most would prefer us confined.”  
“No, I suppose not. But I still feel that way. For a Warden, especially, it is a higher calling. Much more useful than being locked up.”

“Magic is meant to serve man,” Lianore echoed.  
“Exactly.”

 

Before she could express her gratitude, he sent her off to sleep again.

 

“You need all of the rest you can get.”

 

\---

 

Sore, bruised, and exhausted, Lianore leaned up against the crumbling pillar. She slid down it, dropping her staff and bag on the dusty ground, shoulders free for the first time in weeks. The sensation was over too soon, as she felt her blisters open and her wounds swell. Opening her bag with a groan, she started to nibble on the remaining food Duncan had left with her. A meager lunch, but no worse than she had gotten used to.

 

Storms and coldness delayed them at least two days. But, after weeks of numb toes and sore backs, being tempting wolf food and a punching bag for a man several times her age, the sunny sky was a relief. As cold as she was, it was a nice day. Ostagar was unlike anything she had ever seen, and she was used to stone towers. The expansive ruins left her breathless, as did the jagged cliffs that surrounded it whenever she got to close to the edge. It was strange that something that ancient had survived so long. They were ruins, only a fraction of the magnificence they must have held. Somehow, though time and nature had tried their best, they still stood, a rallying point for a campaign that its builders had not anticipated.

 

The battle would be impressive, that much she knew. She’d read countless history books, with colossal battles described in intricate detail. Before now, she could hardly imagine what they must have been like. Living it was surreal. Soldiers rushed about, preparing for what was to come. She had never seen so many people in one place, but none of them seemed to find it as fascinating as she did. They all seemed to be going somewhere, or doing something, while she idly paced the grounds.

 

Having spent much longer than she should have resting, Lianore continued making her way through camp to find the Warden that Duncan had mentioned. The footing was uneven and she stumbled over the cracked stone. Catching her balance, she ran her hand along a nearby wall. Smooth and cold, it was a shame most of it had crumbled away, leaving room for vines to shove their way through the openings and flourish in the ruins. Again, she sighed. It must have been magnificent, hundreds of years ago.

 

A tap on the shoulder, unexpected and startling, and she felt herself seize up.

 

“A moment, my lady.”  
“Mages don’t hold title,” she replied curtly without a second thought.

When she heard the man’s chuckle, her head snapped to look. She practically threw herself on the ground in a deep bow.

She was met with an eager smile, once she dared to look up. “Your Majesty, I apologize deeply. Had I realized...”

Cailan’s laughing interrupted her. “No, no, you’re fine.”

“I am not used to being addressed so formally,” Lianore said.

“I haven’t spoken to many mages,” he admitted. “I meant to be respectful, nothing more.”

“If you couldn’t tell, I haven’t spoken to many kings.”

“It doesn’t show, really.”

 

The man had hardly seemed kingly, even when they were first introduced. Darting eyes that could size you up in a moment before moving on just as fast, he had the face of a sly merchant, calculating and mirthful. Especially in his smile. Were it not for the shiny, embossed armor, it would be difficult to tell he was anyone important. Nonetheless, he was gracious, easy to talk to.

 

“Is there anything I can do for you, your Majesty?” she said.

“For starters, you can stop bowing. If you’d like, of course.”

Flushing, she stood upright.

“I saw you wandering about and wondered if you required help.”

“I’m finding my way well enough.”

 

It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had spoken to many people: an old mentor, a general, a kennelmaster... Just none of them were the person she needed.

 

“It’s a lot to take in.”

“I see, then. So I take it that everything is quite different than life in Kinloch Hold?”  
She shifted her feet. “Definitely. Much more sunlight.”

He laughed heartily. “I would assume so! I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a mage. The robes might not do, but is it exhilarating? I bet using magic is rather intense.”

Biting her tongue, she replied. “Something like that.”

 

“In any case, the Revered Mother was looking for me, so I’ll be heading down to the soldier’s encampment...”

She hesitated before asking, “If it isn’t too much trouble, can you point me in the right direction?”

“Hmm? Oh, of course. What might you be looking for?”

“Duncan asked me to find a Warden named Alistair, do you know where I could find him?”

“Alistair?” Cailan paused and thought. “I may have saw him over that way,” he gestured off in to the crowd. “Earlier today at least.”

  
Not particularly helpful, but she was grateful for the attempt. Crossing her arms, she bowed once more. “It was an honor, your Majesty.”

A tip of his head, and he was gone just as quickly as he’d shown up.

 

Turning to face the bustling camp, Lianore set off once more. Off to her right were the mages’ tents. She walked past as quickly as she could, ducking to avoid Enchanter Wynne’s gaze. She hadn’t be expected to be reminded of home so soon. For a moment, between the lecture, the Tranquil and templars running about, she thought she was. Or at least dreaming again.

 

She passed the colorful tents and continued in the general direction the king had pointed. She found the man matching Duncan’s description off a ways from the rest of the crowd, deep in an argument with a mage she vaguely recognized.

 

Lianore stood to the side uncomfortably while they went at it, not wanting to eavesdrop or interrupt. When the mage stormed off, the man approached her. If Duncan was any indication, it would be difficult to pin him as a Warden. His fair hair was short and well-kept and he wore a nervous smile on his face as he laughed off the encounter.

 

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he said.

Confused by his casual demeanor, Lianore said, “Sorry, what?”

“Oh nothing. Just trying to find a bright side to all this. Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

She crossed her arms. “I am indeed a mage.”

“Really? You don’t look like a mage. Uh... that is... I mean... how interesting,” he stammered.

 

\---

 

“Stop poking at it,” Bethli said, rolling her eyes. “If it gets infected, you’ll start crying again.”  
“Will not!” Lianore pouted, playing with the bandage on her arm.

“Well I won’t take you to a healer when it does.” Bethli mumbled and played her food, generally disinterested.

“Did you pass out? I almost passed out.”

 

Lianore looked up. Across the table from them, a boy had joined their conversation. He sat alone, unlike most of the other apprentices in the hall, dark hair unkempt. He was pale and very ill-looking, with circles beneath his eyes and a sallow complexion.

Bethli tried to ignore him, but Lianore smiled.

 

“I didn’t,” Lianore said proudly.

He looked disappointed, for some reason. “Oh.”

 

She hadn’t even been scared, as she had been eager to tell Bethli. It was just a pin prick, just as First Enchanter Irving had said. Of course she’d been half asleep when they pulled her from bed, using more words she couldn’t quite pronounce while they dragged her upstairs. Phylacteries. Malificarum. None of it made sense until Bethli sat her down and explained afterward.

 

“It’s in case you run away and they have to find you,” she had explained.

“But why would I want to run away?”  
Bethli placed her head against the bedpost. “Lia. Oh Lia.”

 

Breakfast was much better than being poked by needles. She could ignore the soreness for now, especially while there was so much food to eat. Papa hadn’t been the best cook. She frowned and shoved more toast in her mouth. When she swallowed, the boy was still sitting there uncomfortably.

“What’s your name? I’m Lianore. I’m new,” she said.

“I figured that much. I’m Jowan. I think you’ll be in my class.”

“You’re just a regular social butterfly, aren’t you?” Bethli mused. “Kid, I bet you could charm the skirts off templars.”

Lianore ignored her.

“So I bet you’ve been here longer.”

He nodded grimly. “A couple years.”

A pang of homesickness hit her like a charging bull and she put her fork down. “Oh.”

“You’ll get used to it, promise,” he assured her quickly.

“Hey, kid, let’s get going and I can show you around,” Bethli suggested.

“Okay.”

“It was nice meeting you!” Jowan called after them as they were leaving the dining hall.

 

Lianore waved before Bethli could drag her out the door. They had barely gone halfway down the hall before Lianore tugged on Bethli’s sleeve.

“Huh? Whatcha need?”

“Papa isn’t going to come visit, is he?”

“For the love of-” Bethli cursed. “Why’re you bringing this up now, kid?”

“That boy’s been here awhile and he seemed sad. I don’t think he’s seen his family.”

Bethli sighed. “Alright, Lia, listen. He was the one who left you here, wasn’t he?”

“But why, Bethli? He loves me. And Allie, too.”

 

Tears started forming in her eyes. The memories were still fresh; it had barely been a week since she’d arrived. Bethli offered answers, often with more ranting than information, but it still didn’t seem right. They’d been happy, her and Papa and Allie. She shuddered, realized she hadn’t even had time to say goodbye to her sister.

 

“How many times do I need to spell this out. You’re dangerous; a mage. They’d never let him see you, even if he wanted to. It’s better for him just to move on.”

“You’re wrong!” Lianore told her.

“It’s how they deal with us,” Bethli insisted. “The sooner you learn, the better, Lia.”

 

\---

 

“I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

 

The words played in her head again and again, stuck like a piece of food stuck in her teeth, distracting and numbing. But not in a good way. The good way was when he laughed at his own terrible jokes or when he caught her smiling and winked like an idiot.

  
It was right up there for words that bothered her with “It never crossed my mind” and “I’ll see you in the morning, kid,” and it rattled around, leaving a sour taste that only got worse when she thought about it more. Empty phrases, careless wordings, whose speakers could never have imagined the impact they could have.

 

She looked down to the elfroot she held in her hands, twisting the leaves mindlessly. The mage sighed and watched her companions, gray eyes glazed over in boredom. Daveth was at least as anxious to get it over with as she was, drawing patterns in the dirt with one of his daggers as they waited in the clearing. On the other hand, Ser Jory paced back and forth, hand on his pommel and jumping at small noises, waiting for their fourth party member to return.

 

Alistair had been gone for at least ten minutes now, taking off with the map and muttering something about losing the trail. It wasn’t very encouraging to say the least. If they weren’t careful, Lianore knew, they wouldn’t make it back to Ostagar before nightfall. They would have to go much deeper into the Wilds still, at least from what Duncan had implied before sending them off on their errand.

 

Blatantly nervous, Ser Jory spoke up. “What if this is part of our test?”

“Just leaving recruits out in the woods to be eaten by wolves. Brilliant idea, if you ask me,” Daveth said, rolling his eyes.

“We’ll give him a bit longer before we go looking,” Linaore suggested.

“Ever the practical one,” the cutpurse said.

“I’m not running through some strange swamp on the off-chance we’re being tricked, or getting eaten by wolves.” She glared at Daveth while enunciating the last part.

“But what if-”  
Daveth jumped in. “You’ve got a damned sword, don’t you? Use it if you’re so scared.”

 

“Great to see everyone bonding.” Alistair rejoined them, tromping over the undergrowth, pulling twigs out of his armor.

“‘bout time,” Daveth muttered, standing up and slinging his pack over his shoulder.

Getting up as well, Lianore added, “We should get going then.”  
“It’s wonderful that you’re all so enthusiastic,” Alistair said dryly. “I think I’ve figured out where we’re at. Now, if you’ll just follow me...”

“Because that worked so well before,” Lianore found herself muttering a bit to loud.

“After you then,” he said and shoved the map into her hands.

She humored him, glancing over the faded topographical lines before declaring, “Turn left at the second rock. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Haha, now give it back.”

“To be fair,” Ser Jory said, “she’s not the one who got us lost.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, Alistair resigned. “Alright then. Lead the way!”

She went to hand it over. “I was joking.”

“Go for it. You’ll do a much better job anyways.”

 

Eyebrows furrowed, she looked back down. She didn’t want to argue anymore, not with the man who admitted to be a former templar. Though that wasn’t fair; he was unlike any she’d known in the Circle. More than anything she was tired and annoyed. Nearly everyone she’d met that day was surprised to learn that the newest recruit was both a mage and a woman. She would just have to show them.

  
She caught Daveth’s sly smile out of the corner of her eye.

“Missing something, my lady?” he jeered, holding up her staff.

She thought something was off about her balance, but she must have missed him slip it out of her harness while she wasn’t looking.

“Yes, apparently,” she snapped and ripped it from his hands.

“Relax. Just a little joke. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“We’ve got to finish this,” Ser Jory said. He stepped between them, looking more like a large, uncomfortable radish than ever.

 

Before Lianore could stand up for herself, Alistair called over to them to knock it off and stop wasting daylight. Taking care to watch her belongings from now on, she tightened the straps on her bag and took her place at the front of the line.

 

“I had it,” Lianore said coolly, once they had continued down the trail.

Alistair grinned. “Sure, but we’re late for our appointment. Darkspawn are awfully strict about schedules. They won’t be happy.”

Lianore rolled her eyes.

“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t think we got off on the right foot. Or is it the left... Sorry.”

She shook her head, trying to make the lingering words go away. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t. So I’m sorry. You’re really not bad, for a mage,” he said teasingly.

“You’re not bad for a templar,” she retorted in kind.

“Ex-templar.”

Struggling to keep up, Ser Jory cut in. “Does anyone else find it odd that we haven’t come across any darkspawn yet?”

“We’re getting closer,” Alistair said, offering no other explanation.

Taking another look at the map, Lianore nodded. “Not much further now.”

 

\---

It took many weeks for Lianore to get used to life in the Circle. She rarely spoke unprompted, unless it was to Bethli, but even then she stayed mostly quiet. In lessons she was content to listen and do as she was told, nervous to ask questions in case they were out of place. There were only a few other apprentices her age, though it seemed as if they had been practicing magic for forever compared to her. She struggled, especially when it came to her dreams.

 

Right from the beginning, she was taught that even living, breathing, existing, she was dangerous; a sleeping mage was just as potent as a waking one. Even with practice, she still struggled with sleeping. The nightmares were never as real as the one she’d had her first night, she still woke up screaming for Papa or Allie, until Bethli came and calmed her down. Her instructors noticed her difficulties quickly and made sure to keep a close watch on her. She’d overheard two of them once, talking in hushed whispers after class one day.

“Best to keep an eye on her,” Enchanter Minevra had said.

“No use telling them, unless it keeps up. They’ll only make it worse.”

 

It was a big place, and she was a little girl prone to getting lost. Older apprentices rarely bothered to notice her, while the enchanters were busy enough. She began to recognize a few faces here and there. Mostly Bethli, who would grab her hand and lead her around when she had time, but there were a few other children who she saw regularly.

 

She remembered school from before Papa started teaching her at home. Never one for talking, she often had found herself working alone. But here, whenever an instructor called for them to pair up and practice, that same boy always offered to work with her. More often than not, Jowan seemed just as nervous as she was, if not more. Still, he always made sure to smile when he asked.

 

Bethli, who seemed to know everything about everyone, noticed right away, and made sure to tell Lianore exactly what she thought.

“That Jowan kid is weird,” she pointed out. “Don’t know why you’re always around him.”

“You’re weird too.”

“Fine. We’re all a bit weird,” Bethli admitted.

 

He was a different sort of friend. They were closer in age and ability, and therefore saw each other more often during the day. Neither were particularly good at focusing their magic, still learning the basics. But they didn’t really care much and had fun in their lessons. He listened to her, whereas Bethli never seemed to stop talking, or just sat close by when she didn’t want to talk. Sometimes, if she looked especially weepy, he would try and tell her stories. Old legends, of heroes and dragons, the ones Mama used to read to her. She would have to stop and correct him whenever he messed up because she knew them so well.

 

After lessons one day, he put a finger to his lips and motioned her to follow, an eagerness in his eyes Lianore had never seen. Intrigued, she followed him down an unfamiliar hallway, away from the rest of the class. He walked slow enough so her tiny legs could keep up with his strides.

“Where are we going?” she asked, tripping over her baggy robes.

“You’ll see,” he said and grinned down at her.  
She pouted, but didn’t slacken her pace.

A few more flights of stairs before he stopped. He faced her and presented a heavy, oak door with a flourish of his hands.

 

“Here we are, Lia!” he said proudly.

“That’s a door.”  
“I meant what’s behind it.”

“Then say that!” She giggled.

 

He rolled his eyes and pushed on the handle. With a little help from Lianore it swung open, revealing a gigantic library. Bookcases upon bookcases towered stories above them, larger than any of the other libraries she’d seen in the tower. She had never seen so many books in one place, let alone in her life. Taking it all in, she covered her mouth and gasped.

 

“You seem to like stories a lot, so I figured you’d like this...”

“I’m going to read them all,” she said, wide-eyed.

“Most of them don’t have pictures,” he warned her, but she didn’t seem to notice, darting forward and running her fingers along the spines.

 

Something caught the back of her dress before she could thank him. She landed on the ground with a thud, her robes pinned down by a large, metallic foot. When she looked up, a templar stood over her, his incensed expression only barely visible beneath his helmet. He reached for her arm, but she tore away and caused him to slip. The racket he made when he fell, skirt over armor, onto the stone floor could have gotten the attention of the entire tower.

 

She stood still in terror as he picked himself up. “What are you doing here? Initiates aren’t allowed here unsupervised.”  
Jowan grabbed her shoulders and steered her away. “We were just leaving,” he blurted out quickly.

“Get back to class,” he growled after them, holding his side.

 

The door closed behind them, shivers still trailing down Lianore’s spine.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble, I just thought...”

“It’s okay, Jowan,” she said.

  
It would be several years before she worked up the courage to go back on her own.


	3. Atop the Tower Steps

Bethli hovered Lianore’s shoulder, as the aloof elf was prone to do. A teasing tug on the little girl’s blond braid and she sat down next to her on the bed.

It wasn’t as obvious in the candlelight, but the past several months in the tower had left their mark on the girl. Her skin had lost much of its color and vibrancy. Now, she looked pale and washed out, lips drawn tight unless you gave her a reason to smile. She cried less now, only when she started thinking too much, but her lessons kept her busy. Five months, that’s all it had been. The elf hadn’t fared much better herself in her early weeks, but she had been older by several years and hadn’t left nearly as much behind.

“Kid,” she said, putting her arm casually over her shoulder, “put the books away. You don’t have any responsibilities yet. Just relax.”

Lianore ignored her and stared intently down at the book on her lap.

“Can you even read? Or are you just looking at the pictures?” Bethli asked after a few minutes.

“I can read a little bit,” Lianore said. “Papa taught me my letters.”

“A little bit?” Bethli smirked. She pulled the book from the younger mage’s hands and flipped it over to the green cover. Pointing, despite Lianore’s protests, she said, “All righty, what’s this say.”

With a little squeak, Lianore opened her mouth and shut it just as quickly. After glancing back up at the elf’s smug expression, she tried mouthing out the letters.

“So mostly pictures, then?” Bethli concluded, setting The Complete Index of the Flora of Southern Thedas aside.

Tears dribbled down Lianore’s cheek, so the older girl knew it was time to stop. She used her sleeve to wipe them dry, before pulling out her brush and working it through Lianore’s hair. It was more or less their routine now. Bethli hummed quietly as she rearranged the curls back into a braid and tickled her whenever the little mage started to go too quiet.

 

“I miss the garden,” Lianore finally said, staring into her lap.  
Bethli blinked. “The whatnow?”

“Mama’s garden,” Lianore said.

“You haven’t seen it since you left home, huh?”

“No. Me and Allie stopped weeding it after she passed away. It grew out and the flowers died.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, Bethli picked the hefty, viridian tome and set it back in front of them. She didn’t bother to ask where she’d found it or what had possessed her (though not the best use of words) to lug it back to bed with her. Instead, she opened it and instructed the little girl to point out her favorites. They flipped through the dusty pages, looking and the intricate drawings. The pictures were vivid and colorful; much more brilliant than the scribbles in her father’s handbook. Lianore found the ones she liked the best and Bethli made sure to remember their names.

“That way, if we can ever get permission to leave, and serve in the King’s court or something, we can recognize them,” she said.

Brimming with eagerness, the little girl turned the page.

\---

Lianore curled her fingers around the thin stem. She took care not to get dirt stuck between her bracers as she pulled up, releasing the small flower from the earth. Crouched down in the grass, she looked at it closer, turning the translucent petals over in her hand. It was a bright crimson in the center, even more brilliant than the blood that stained her robes. Elegant and small, but very potent.

A twig snapped and she sprung to attention. Grabbing her staff with her free hand, she jumped up to her feet. Lianore looked through the undergrowth frantically, but saw no sign of darkspawn. Instead, she caught a small animal staring back at her. Its matted fur stood up on end and its eyes were a dangerous, electric yellow. Too small for a wolf, but too large for a dog, it watched her for several moments before darting away. Still unable to place exactly what it had been, she returned to the rest of the group.

“Are you sure that’s it?” Alistair asked.

Lianore nodded as she wrapped the medicinal flower in a spare piece of cloth and tucked it in her bag, next to the vials of darkspawn blood they had collected. Another task complete.

 

“We’re getting closer,” she said once she realized all three men were watching her expectantly.

“Good. I’ve just about had it with these... things. Their smell, those noises they make, I cannot stand it,” Ser Jory said.

“If darkspawn make you skittish, you might have selected the wrong career path,” Alistair told him.

“Some of us didn’t have a choice,” Daveth said. “Still glad for it, all the same. The lady mage knows what I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” Alistair said, wiping some of the excess blood from his face.

“Both brought here against our will, we were.”

“Recruit Amell is from the Circle tower,” Alistair said and turned to her for affirmation.

“I- I, well yes, but,” she stammered out, gray eyes determined to avoid his. “I was conscripted. That’s what I told Recruit Daveth.”

 

Just saying those words made her stomach churn. She hated leaving the story at that. She hated that she even cared. But conscripted meant unwilling, not unlawful. Maybe that was the only explanation he needed. After all, she’d made enough poor first impressions to last a lifetime. It was better that she was just a Circle mage, than a foolish criminal. Before he could respond, however, another flank of darkspawn rushed down the hill to greet them.

Lianore had thought some of the demons she’d met in the fade were hideous; darkspawn were on an entirely different level. The old stories did not do their appearance justice, with their peeling skin and misshapen features. Grotesque, unnatural, were the only words she had to truly describe them. They were the stuff of nightmares, with venom in their blood and death in their eyes.

Staff in hand, Lianore was quick to lose herself in the heat of the battle. She’d come far in the weeks since leaving the tower; her movements were less clumsy with practice. But the spells she could recall at a moment’s notice, or prepare quickly, were as weak as they were inaccurate. Just as often as she sent a bolt of lightning through a hurlok’s sword hand, she sent a dozen flying over their heads.

It was clear that her companions had more fighting experience. He may not have looked it, but Ser Jory was graceful in battle. Even with his clunky armor, he rarely missed his target and never flinched when his sword hit darkspawn metal. What Daveth lacked in form, he made up for in deceit. A few well-placed jabs were more effective than close-locked combat. Alistair too was impressive, making up for his fewer years of experience with agility and energy.

Despite her disadvantages, she kept up well, following their lead as they charged the hill. She tried to focus on the archers, sending spells to intercept their arrows before they could do any damage. It was tedious, but effective as the others took out the rest of the monsters.

 

When the mace hit her head, she didn’t have time to react.

 

Cold ground met fragile flesh. The jarring second impact was worse than the first, as her neck snapped forward from the recoil. She collided with the ground in a heap of lanky mage and blood-soaked robes. Motionless, Lianore was vaguely aware of her own, personal pool of blood. Her head throbbed and nearly blinded her with pain from where the mace had made contact with her skull. She squinted up at her attacker, the vicious hurlock drawing its weapon above its head for the final swing.

Eyes shut, she prayed to the Maker for it to be over quick.

But the end didn’t come. Instead, through the pain, she could make out one of her allies slamming into the hurlock’s side and blocking its attack. She laid still until the clashing of metal on metal stopped. No energy left, even for a simple healing spell, she was stuck.

With little knowledge, or probably care, for procedure, Alistair shook her in a panic once the darkspawn lay dead and their feet. “Wake up. Come on, it’s over now.”

“I’ll be fine.” She pushed him aside, although weakly, and grabbed at her pack which lay several meters away, likely dropped in the confusion of battle. She paused. How strange that she couldn’t remember. Not that any of her thoughts made sense beneath the pain that flared whenever she considered moving.

He brought it to her, taking out a poultice that she insisted on administering herself. Sitting up, she winced and looked around. Ser Jory and Daveth watched, both just as covered in blood at she was. Their armor was at least. Before their first encounter, Alistair had warned them about the dangers of darkspawn blood and both men had enough sense to promptly wipe it off.

 

“Let’s keep going,” she insisted once the stinging numbed.

“That was a nasty blow. Are you sure you’re all right?” Ser Jory asked.

“A minor concussion at the worst, nothing the medicine and a bit of magic can’t fix.” She continued because of the confused look on his face. Or perhaps it was always that way. “I was trained as a healer at the Circle,” she explained and brought her hands up to her temples.

“Neat trick,” Daveth said as pure, magic relief flowed around her fingers, erasing most of the signs of damage.

“Still, try and be more careful,” Alistair said.

 

He wrapped an arm around her to help her balance as she stood. Her legs practically gave out under her, but he caught her just as quickly. It might have been useful, if he hadn’t been leaning away from her uncomfortably. Still wobbling, Lianore leaned against her staff for support and smiled weakly.

“That was nothing compared to some of the bruises Duncan gave me,” she assured him.  
“Figures he wouldn’t hold back, even against recruits. Packs a punch for an old man, doesn’t he?”

“Alistair?”

“Yeah?”

“You can let go of me now.”

He fumbled and coughed out an apology as he pulled his hand away from her waist, stuttering about how they really needed to keep pressing forward. Red-faced and wishing she hadn’t said anything, she limped ahead. Lianore only looked back to shoot a glare at Daveth after he whistled not-so-subtly after her.

\---

Wearing a determined look on her face, Lianore rolled the soft, warm ball of wax in her hand. When Jowan nodded to her, she threw it halfway up the flight of stairs. One of the other apprentices, a spindly, blonde-haired girl named Myra, handed her a crudely carved die. Eyes shut tight, Lianore shook it in her closed palm and dropped it on the floor. She peeked down as it clattered against the stone and swore.

“Son of a Blighting whore!”

A two. Of course she got a low number with such a far throw.

The apprentice named Delvin snickered. “Surana’s taught her well.”

“Betcha new girl won’t make it,” Myra told Jowan.

“Betcha she will,” he snapped back.

Lianore took a deep breath, looking from Myra’s smug expression to Jowan’s encouraging smile, and leaped into the air. She landed on the fourth step up, just barely. Teetering backwards, she swung her arms to catch her balance. Now only five steps from where the wax ball lay, she looked down at the other mages.

“Go Lia!” Jowan shouted, while Myra huffed.

She took her second daring leap, kicking her legs and flailing her arms to try and get just a little further. But it was just out of her reach.

She sulked back down, taking the walk of shame as Delvin rolled for the other team. With six easy jumps, he reached the top hardly out of breath. He held up the wax ball in victory. Before he could throw it back down, the clanking of metal interrupted the game. They all looked up to see a templar rushing down the stairs to meet them.

“Dormitories. Now,” she said, practically shoving Devlin down the rest of the flight.

 

They didn’t ask questions and ran as quickly as their robes would let them to their chambers. The lower floors were hectic since everyone was scrambling, whispering to each other and trying to figure out what was happening. Lianore didn’t say anything until she was safe in Bethli’s bunk, glued to the elf’s side. The door locked behind them and the rest of the girls began swapping rumors. Hestia, the eldest girl in the room at fourteen, was adamant that she knew what was going on.

“Someone probably got out,” she said, looking warily at the lone templar standing watch for answers.

“Bullshit. No one just escapes,” Bethli said.

“You don’t think someone jumped,” Myra whispered, hugging her blankets.

Keili gasped. “Maker forbid!”

“Florian said maybe a Tranquil went rogue,” another girl added.

“Well Florian’s a moron,” Bethli shot back. “It’s no use worrying about it, locked in here.” She shot a cold look at the templar.

“We could talk about boys,” Hesita suggested.

“Or not,” Bethli said.

As if summoned, the boys on the other side of the room began making a ruckus. Though the youngest mages all lived in close quarters, the large room was divided down the center by a curtain. It was a barrier often breached by dirty laundry or wads of vellum, depending on how obnoxious either side felt like being. The shouting stopped mostly when a senior enchanter barged in and reminded them to behave, but everyone remained active and alert.

Lianore tugged on Bethli’s sleeve. “I hope Jowan is okay. I lost track of him in the crowd.”

“Hey Jowan, your girlfriend wants to know if you’re okay!” Myra shouted across the room.  
A few moments passed before one of the older boys shouted back. “Lover boy is right here!” His comment was followed by a chorus of kissing noises, interrupted only by Jowan’s squeaky protests.

Bethli rolled her eyes. “Just go talk to him. Before this gets out of hand.”

Reluctantly, Lianore hopped down and rushed to the curtain before anyone could make any more jokes.

 

A ball of wax rolled through the curtain and bounced off of her shoe. Though it wasn’t really much of a ball anymore, having been kneaded repeatedly out of anxiety. After she bent down to pick it up, she peeked through the curtain’s folds. The other half of the room was messy, to put it lightly. Even the templar guarding them looked disheveled, very clearly annoyed by his poor luck. Jowan sat on his bed and tried to ignore the kid jumping on the bunk above him.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Lianore said, smiling apologetically.

He shrugged. “I figured you made it down here in one piece. Anyways, good game earlier.”  
“Sorry I messed it up.”

“No! Lia you did great. You’re really getting the hang of it. Besides, we never finished so we didn’t really lose...”

Lianore giggled.

 

Then, she asked, “How long do you think we’ll be here?”  
“I dunno. Nothing’s happened like this before.”

“We’re safe here,” Lianore declared. “That’s what the tower is for right?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Before she could respond, she realized that several of the girls were giggling behind her and she rolled her eyes. “I should go, but tell Delvin that we’re having a rematch later,” she said and tossed the ball back at him.

\---

“So, you are a mage from the Circle,” the dark-haired witch, Morrigan, said. It was neither a question nor comment, just a fact solidified in her precise speech as she walked at Lianore’s side.

Hoping she hadn’t been caught staring at her strange appearance, Lianore nodded. “I’ve lived there nearly all my life.”

“Not by your own volition, I presume?” she inquired, head tilted slightly in curiosity.

“I was young,” Lianore said curtly. “It was not my choice.”

The apostate scoffed. “To just bend to the will of the templars with out a second thought, what a miserable existence you must have led. You are lucky to have escaped them now.”

“I used to be a templar you know,” Alistair cautioned. He, Ser Jory, and Daveth walked behind them by several paces, all keeping their distance from the apostate.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Fascinating. Though you obviously are not a very good one, considering neither of the mages in your presence are shackled.”

“She’s going to be a Warden. It’s different.”

“We need to get back to camp. I’m sure we can find it from here,” Lianore cut in. “Thank you for everything, Morrigan. You didn’t have to help us.”

“Didn’t I?” Morrigan mused. “Anyways, tis not much further, so I shall see you the rest of the way.”

“Wonderful,” Daveth muttered.

The witch ignored him and turned back to Lianore, who was the only person in the party she seemed remotely interested in. She was leading them back to Ostagar, albeit reluctantly. In fact, Lianore was the only one who didn’t seem to be uncomfortable by the arrangement. But when an old woman plucked right out of one of your childhood stories tells you to do something, you obey.

 

“Such welcoming company, one can only assume you are simply delighted by their presence.”

“It has been an interesting day,” Lianore admitted. “Might I ask, if it is not to rude that is...”

“Spit it out,” Morrigan commanded.

Stuttering, Lianore asked, “What is life like outside of the Circle? I mean... You have no one to watch you, so what happens if you become an abomination? Do demons not tempt you?”

“You assume that I require an outside influence to control my own power? To answer your question, yes. Apostates are no exception to demons, though I imagine your Circle does little to encourage that idea, lest you realize your shackles are needlessly tight.”

“We were always taught that apostates were raving, dangerous maleficars. I see that this is not the case, unless you’re a particularly pleasant abomination.”

“A term she uses loosely, obviously,” Alistair added.

Ignoring him, Morrigan continued. “I find the idea that I require a glorified jailor to oversee my magic insulting to my abilities, as should you. You place limits on your true potential, just through allowing them to control you. Imagine what you pathetic mages could control, if only you were not bound to their will. Instead, you fear brands of apostacy and keep yourselves in line out of fear of the one thing that could set you free.”

Realizing what she was implying, Lianore blurted out, “Blood magic is dangerous and wrong.”

“Because that is precisely what your Chantry has told you!” she argued, red in the face from frustration.

 

She stopped abruptly, causing Lianore to worry she had upset her. Morrigan turned and faced them, wearing a sly smile and laughing to herself.

“It is pointless, of course, since you sheep fear being feared.” She gestured her hand at the men, who had began cowering at the mere suggestion of blood magic. “What you do not realize is that they already fear you, so why not use that to your advantage?”

Lianore went to defend herself, but Morrigan cut her off, pointing over the ridge.

“Your camp is that way, but your journey is far from over, I expect.” Though she carried an air of mystery, she was far less cryptic than her mother. Now that they had stopped walking, Lianore realized just how obvious this was. Even though Morrigan stood fearless, her voice wavered and her eyes shifted about the forrest, as if she expected an ambush. In a way, Lianore pitied her, even admired her. Life as an apostate could not be easy, despite how determined she was to leave that bit out.

“It was nice to meet you,” Lianore said sincerely as the rest of the group turned to part ways.

Taken aback, Morrigan looked her over again suspiciously before turning and heading back into the trees.

\---

“The rare Brona’s Grief, known as the Wilds flower locally, is a flowering plant with a distinctive red center that grows primarily on,” Bethli paused to yawn, “decomposing logs in swampy areas. It is used in both perfume and medicine, as the fragrant blossom has proved proficient at stopping the progression of-”

“Would you two be quiet?” Hestia sighed. “You’ve been at it for hours.”

Lianore looked away, embarrassed, but Bethli defended her.

“We’re reading,” the elf snapped. “Not like you’ve got anything better to do.”

“Why would anyone care that much about plants?”

The younger mage had to grab Bethli’s sleeves before she could try and throw the book across the room.

“It’s late. Let’s stop,” Lianore whispered.

“We’re going to get you reading good in no time,” Bethli said just as quietly, taking care that the other girls weren’t listening. “Do you like anything other than plant books though?”

Lianore thought for a moment. Her parents had kept several books, more than anyone else in the town, but she’d never been allowed to look at them. She’d held reading primers on the few occasions she’d attended school and had flipped through a few of the ones she could reach on the library shelves. Then there were the written books of the Chant that were in the chapel, or the ones her instructors read from about magic. Those, she knew, wouldn’t be very interesting.

“What about stories?” she asked.

“I’ll see what I can do, kid,” Bethli said, then turned to look at the templar on duty. “Once we get out of here that is,” she said much louder than necessary.

 

One of the boys poked their heads through the curtain.

“Did someone mention stories?”

“Go bother someone else,” one of the other girls sighed.

“But we’ll be here all night! One of the older boys was saying that it was an abomination.”

“Florian don’t be such a gossip,” Bethli said, rolling her eyes.

“Do you know any stories though?”

The boy looked up at her pitifully, and several of the girls joined in, eager for something to take their mind off of everything. Bethli ignored all of them and instead looked down at Lianore, who plead desperately with her big, gray eyes. With a sigh, she hopped down from her bunk and told everyone to get cozy.

Several of the boys followed Florian over to listen. They dragged pillows and blankets and chatted excitedly. Some hesitantly watched the templar, but continued once they realized that there would be no repercussions for story time. Most of them hadn’t been read stories since arriving at the tower, years ago for some of them. In all, a dozen or so apprentices gathered together on the stone floor, tired but still attentive. Jowan sat on Lianore’s other side, still absent mindlessly rolling the wax ball in his palm.

“No one has any books, do they? Of course they don’t. Okay then. Here we go.” She blinked a few times, pulling on her collar. “Have any of you heard the story of Garahel?”

“But that’s an elf story,” Delvin groaned.

“Well I’m an elf, so I’m going to tell an elf story,” Bethli snapped back at him. She was met with a few cheers from the other elves in the room, before continuing. “Now lots of people think we aren’t worth much, but Garahel was a hero, so even shems have to pay attention to him. He ended the Fourth Blight and saved everyone.”

“Don’t spoil the ending!” Florian whined.

“Can it, Flora. If you don’t know that much, you’d better pull your robes outta your ass and listen in class once and awhile.”

“Everyone knows that,” Hestia added.

“What about the griffons?” Roland, one of the youngest boys with curly red hair, asked.

“If you guys don’t stop, I’m not telling it!” Bethli shouted.

The room went dead silent. Even the templars seemed to be listening, waiting for her to continue.

“Better, so anyways, Garahel, he didn’t have much. Just his sister really, and she was a mage.”

 

Lianore listened very intently at first, but started to doze off. Other apprentices seemed to be doing the same thing since they were all exhausted from the long day. Bethli wasn’t the best storyteller and was very quick to add her own opinions on the characters between breaths. But she was enthusiastic and, from the parts she heard, it was the best story Lianore had ever heard. By the time she realized Bethli had finished, one of the Enchanters was shepherding children back to their beds, explaining that the threat had passed. They were safe and it was time to sleep properly. In the morning, no one asked where Enchanter Thierry had gone.

\---

She had climbed two to three steps at a time, unable not to be reminded of her childhood games. It was a sweetly numbing thought, even if it made her homesick. She hadn’t stopped moving, not since they reached camp, and that didn’t seem like it was going to change any time soon. The images flashed in her head. The soldiers rushing frantically; Daveth’s still-warm body on the ground; Duncan’s blade stained in Ser Jory’s blood; the goblet full of thick, black Taint...

And just like that, they were off again. It should have been an easy job, a quick job, but the tower was flooded with darkspawn. By the time they had finally lit the signal, Lianore prayed they hadn’t been too late.

Now, they waited.

 

The two soldiers that had come with them stood their guard. They remained alert, only occasionally distracted by the ogre corpse that lay several meters behind them. Alistair paced the blood-stained floor, worry lining his face.

“Something’s not right. We should have heard something by now.”

“We aren’t disobeying orders,” Lianore cautioned him. “Duncan said-”

“But we shouldn’t have met opposition in the first place. If we missed our chance...” His face went pale.

If he finished the sentence, Lianore didn’t hear it. The door burst open and filled the room with sound.

 

The first arrow pierced her arm, the second her abdomen. After that, she couldn’t count. She fell backwards, dropping her staff in surprise, as her companions fell around her. The two soldiers lay motionless, as dutiful in death as they had presumably been in life; She had never even asked their names. Breath shallow, she stayed conscious long enough to see darkspawn storm the room before passing out.


	4. On the Road Again

Being dead was a lot less permanent than Lianore had anticipated.

She soon realized, of course, that she wasn’t dead, but being unconscious for so long wasn’t an pleasant feeling nonetheless. Even being sent to the Fade had felt comparably more comfortable and, weeks later, the thought of that still left her reeling from the Lyrium poisoning her system. She awoke disoriented and staring at a thatched ceiling. Before she even could move, a chill shook her, an earthy spice filled her nose. Restlessly, she sat up. It was easier said than done and she winced, drawing the attention of a black-haired woman rummaging through a bookshelf.

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased,” she said once she realized Lianore was watching her.

It was the apostate from the Wilds. Morrigan, had it been? But how was that even possible? Just thinking about it made Lianore’s head ache as she regained her consciousness. Her memories were fuzzy, but slowly coming back to her. She and Alistair had lit the signal fire, the one to begin the charge. Then darkspawn, and then nothing.

Morrigan wasted no time brashly telling her what had happened. As she explained their defeat and rescue, Lianore struggled to listen, her head full of questions and pain. They were lucky, almost too lucky. There had been almost no other survivors. She tried to imagine the full camp, as it had been days before, filled with the King’s laughter, Duncan’s exasperated sigh... all gone.

Lianore looked around, unable to concentrate with the vivid memories replaying in her head. The hovel was small, lit by only the fire burning steadily in the hearth. There was only one room, from what she could tell, serving as both sleeping chambers and kitchen. It was quaint, homely. She tried to imagine growing up here, with no tower walls or overbearing templars, no lessons or other people, with nothing but a faulty roof, freedom, and a batty old mother. But that was impolite; Flemeth had helped them twice now. Lianore owed her her life and that in itself was an unsettling thought. Her own mother had told her the stories, after all. It was a distant memory, barely on the tip of her tongue. Hadn’t she asked Papa to cover all the mirrors in the house in the weeks after? She doubted the old woman spoke the truth. Even if her name was just an invocation of the witch of legend, it made Lianore’s skin crawl.

If she noticed how upset Lianore was, Morrigan did not let it show in her retelling. Perhaps once or twice sorrow crept into her voice, as if the tragedy shook her even though she had not been there to witness the slaughter. It was not something her words alone could give away. They were as indifferent as ever, or at least as long as Lianore had known her. Her tone, her uncharacteristically humble stature, suggested there was more to the witch than her distant attitude.

The Wardens were gone, as were most of the King’s men. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir did not lead his charge, leaving them all to die. But Flemeth had saved her, her and Alistair, from amidst the chaos. Again, she had been rescued from certain death while others suffered the consequences of fate. The guilt pressed down on her, nearly suffocating her as Morrigan went quiet, signaling she had no more to tell.

Lianore had so many questions, but only asked a fraction of them in favor of dressing herself. She urged herself to keep going, to just not think. Don’t think and go talk to the swamp witch. Her heavy robes were fresh, all traces of blood removed. Soft and familiar, they gave her a brief distraction. It was drafty in the small house and the pendant around her neck felt like ice against her skin. To her continued discomfort, she quickly realized how stiff she was as the garment got stuck on her head. Morrigan eyed her, amused by her refusal for help.

“By all means, continue to flail about, caught helpless in your own shift,” she said. Lianore could practically hear the eye-roll in her voice.

Once she got her robes on the correct way, she sat down on the bed and struggled to lace up her boots, very aware that the witch was watching her. Her hands shook and weren’t working quite like she wanted them too. The faster she went, the more she fumbled. In her frustration, she stopped half-way and pushed through the door, almost tripping over herself.

She still felt dead. The pain had faded and her wounds had healed, but none of it felt right. Who was she to have cheated her way out of her death more times in the last few weeks than she could count, while better men than her died on the battlefield? It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair that she, a junior Warden that just happened to survive drinking a concoction of poisonous blood after watching her companions fall before her, deserved to live. She still wasn’t even sure she deserved to be a Warden, knowing her best friend was probably locked up or worse by now because she let him make a stupid mistake.

But she refused to cry, not in front of the apostate’s silent, judging glare. She entered the clearing with her head held high and feelings numbed; there would be time to grieve when the Blight had ended.

\---

In those early days, Jowan’s smile was a rare thing. He had spent the past year or so in isolation, much younger that the other apprentices, and his self-confidence was much worse for it. Lianore quickly noticed, even in her youth, that he dreaded going to lessons. There wasn’t much for either of them to study, outside of gaining control of their dreaming, and he struggled even with that much. Whereas Lianore had begun to get the hang of their exercises, he struggled with the same ideas he had been practicing since he had left his family. Jowan had many good qualities of course. He was sensitive in all of the ways that made him a good person and a terrible mage.

He was much quieter than the rest of the children at the tower and knew even less reading than Lianore had when she had arrived.

He was also terrified of templars.

Lianore understood that much. It took only one or two sour encounters to terrify a young mage, and the horror stories only made it worse.

It was understandable, of course. They were always alert. Never sacrificing vigilance, even the youngest apprentice was to be treated with the utmost caution. They kept their watch night and day, sharpened blades and sharpened minds always at the ready. Their very presence was intimidating, especially to the youngest initiates, with a near fanatical commitment to their sacred duty. Whether it was out of religious devotion or out of lyrium addiction, it was never clear. Regardless, their watchful eyes were a constant reminder of the threat magic posed. And oh how they reminded them.

At first, she hadn’t paid much attention; she’d met a few in the village Chantry and they’d been kind enough. In the Circle, it was a title that bore an entirely different meaning. It didn’t take her long to pick up on how the other mages young and old held their heads down in the corridors and walked briskly from place to place. Best not to draw attention to yourself, in case you were breaking some rule that they’d never bothered to tell you about.

Jowan poked her shoulder.

Rubbing away the sleepiness, Lianore looked up to meet his steely eyes. He tipped his head to the front of the hall, where Enchanter Douglas was droning on about meditation. The words just washed over her, as the elderly scholar struggled to find words that the children could understand.

“So you see, as evident by the prevailing theoretical assessments, routine presomnial routine is experimentally proven to decrease the frequency by which-”

A cough from the back of the room drowned out the rest of the sentence and the children turned their heads on cue.

“May I help you, ser?” he asked warily, struggling to bring the distant templar into focus in his spectacles.

“It was nothing,” the templar said coolly.  
“Excuse me, then,” Enchanter Douglas said and returned to the board.

Lianore looked around the room, double checking to make sure no one else was paying attention either. Delvin was slumped over in his seat and kicked the back of Nadeen’s chair whenever Douglas went to replace his chalk. Keili stared out the open window, which was difficult considering that it was a story and half above the floor, while Jowan seemed to be listening closely, the elderly teacher’s words washing over him as useless to him as a wet mop in a leaky boat. As the youngest mages in the tower, this was their entire class most days.

The templar coughed once more, causing Enchanter Douglass to snap another piece of chalk in two.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lesson,” he spoke, voice echoing behind his thick helm.

“Forgive me if I’m not exactly sure what you mean to do then,” the aging enchanter replied. “As I was saying-”  
“However,” the templar continued, “I was just curious as to what the point even is. Why you bother teaching these lessons, when most of them will end up abominations or Tranquil anyways.”

“Please let us continue the lesson, ser.”

“They all know what happened last week, the Harrowing gone wrong.” He stopped for a moment, wary of breaching the forbidden subject, but continued just as fervently. “They know what they are. Even at this age, they know their place.”

The rant went on, even as they were dismissed and shepherded out of the room by their teacher. Enchanter Douglas guided the pale-faced class to the dining hall, where they sat together, huddled together over the table in the otherwise empty room. They were still to early for lunch.

“Maybe he’s right. What’s the point of any of it?” Jowan asked, eyes lowered.

The rest sat in silence, all of them too young to really understand what was going on.

 

News of the incident spread quickly, either by Enchanter Douglas’ discreet complaints or the templar’s boasting. He never stood watch over their class again, but Lianore swore she still saw him around the tower. It wasn’t difficult to tell them apart, after a time. She thought back to the library incident, months before and wondered if it was the same man.

“Trust me, kid,” Bethli told her, “you’re gonna get scolded by a lot more than two of ‘em even if you keep your toes in place.” Wearing a mischievous grin, she grabbed a bucket from the floor, put it on her head, and hiked up her robes. “Not eating all of your dinner again, Amell? That’s a week in the dungeon!”

Nadeen, the sandy haired elf, look up from a book and just shook their head. “They’ll catch ya one’a these days, Surana. Breakin a rule or something, they will.”

“I’d like to see ‘em try,” Bethli huffed, handing the bucket to Lianore.

 

The first time she saw Jowan after the incident, he still looked shaken. He spent even more himself, skipping meals and staying at his bunk. When Lianore told him to close his eyes, he was confused, but obeyed. She placed a rolled up piece of vellum in his hand and stepped back.

“What’s this?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“You were sad so I wrote you a story,” she said proudly. “Bethli’s been helping me with my letters.”

Jowan opened it slowly, biting his lip as his eyes scanned the page. “...Thanks.”  
“I ran out of words and had to draw some of it out,” Lianore explained. “It’s an old story my mama used to tell me...” She paused. “I think I remembered all of it. It’s about a girl who lives by the sea.”

“And she finds a seashell, but inside is a demon that tries to trick her,” Jowan finished. “Mother told me the same one, a long time ago.”

Lianore put her hand on his shoulder when he grew quiet. He’d never spoken of his family before and she didn’t quite know what to say. They sat together for a few minutes, quiet and unsure.

“I can’t read this,” he said, “but thank you, Lia.”  
“I’ll help you!” she offered. “We’ll read it together, please?”

“Alright,” he finally said. “Just don’t tell Bethli I don’t know a whole lot. She’ll tease me.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t, I promise.”

\---

Morrigan took the lead through the untamed forest and Lianore was glad for it, at least when the apostate wasn’t complaining to anyone who would listen. Incidentally, this usually happened to be Lianore since Alistair had taken to quietly sulking behind them. To say that he wasn’t taking everything well would be an understatement; he had lost everything at Ostagar. She had been able to coax a couple of jokes out of him here and there, though for the most part he kept to himself, silent and withdrawn. He needed time, but Lianore just wasn’t sure how much they had.

With a twirl of her staff, Morrigan knocked more dead branches out their path.

“We’re making good time,” Lianore said, trying to strike up conversation. “It took me much longer to get through the Wilds with Du- I mean, before.” She corrected herself quickly and hoped that Alistair hadn’t been paying attention.

Morrigan just looked at her and stuck her staff into the swampy earth like a walking stick, continuing the push forward. Frowning, Lianore looked back at Alistair, who was seemingly content staring at his boots. She let out a noise of frustration and smacked her own staff against a nearby tree. To her dismay, she had underestimated her strength and the metal rod sent powerful vibrations up her arm. She dropped it with a yelp. Sparks lept from the end as it clattered to the forest floor, causing a flock of noisy birds to scatter.

“You are very strange,” Morrigan told her, pausing only to laugh.

“Says the woman who can turn into a giant spider,” Lianore mumbled, as Alistair handed her her staff. He still said nothing, but couldn’t help but smirk at the ridiculous display.

The witch scoffed. “It was one time. I apologize if it took you by surprise.”  
“I hate spiders,” Lianore said, shivering at the thought of her companion’s grotesque transformation the night before.

“But consider my place,” Morrigan continued. “Would you not see it as advantageous to learn whatever types of magic allowed you to survive? Or do you remained disillusioned enough to believe your Chantry has any power here?”

After checking to see if Alistair would retort, Lianore defended herself. “I don’t have a problem with your shapeshifting, or any of your magic. Just... no more spiders. Please.”

“Did you not just tell me, nearly a fortnight ago, that you consider yourself above such illicit magics?”

“For personal reasons, yes.”

“Nothing from the templar on this matter?” Morrigan said and gestured vaguely over at Alistair.

“No, not really.”

After a few uncomfortable glances between the three of them, Morrigan gave up and continued leading them through the dense undergrowth. Lianore hung back, adjusting her bags nervously just long enough to catch pace with Alistair.

“You look well, all things considered,” she told him.

He looked up at her and nodded slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Lianore continued, wondering why she was still talking. “Everything that happened... I know that it cannot be easy for you and... If you need to talk, or anything, I know... I know it’s different for you than it was for me, but I can listen. If you’d like, of course.”

“Thank you,” he said just quiet enough so Morrigan couldn’t hear. “Maybe later, for now I just...”  
Lianore nodded. “It’s okay, Alistair,” she said and tried to smile.

 

For the next several hours, they walked in awkward silence. Even though days had passed, Flemeth’s eerie words still echoed in her head. The elderly witch had been so keen to encourage them to continue forward and to do their duty as Wardens to end the Blight, enough so to send her daughter with them. They both looked to her for what to do next and, honestly, Lianore had no idea.

She had no problems with stepping up to the responsibility. Becoming a Warden was her salvation and penance, so she would so whatever it took to fulfill that role. The only issue, then, was she had no idea what to do. She was a Circle mage, as Morrigan was so quick to remind her. Her life experience couldn’t have prepared her for this. Creation and primal spells were good enough when thrown at darkspawn or used to help allies, but nothing in her studies could have prepared her to raise an army.

Perhaps even just the army part she could handle. After all, they had the old Grey Warden treaties. Between those, and the Redcliffe forces Alistair assured them would be able to aid them, they could certainly muster enough manpower. But what of Loghain? And the Blight itself? They had no way of knowing how much time they had.

On top of that, she didn’t even know if the treaties would work. Alistair had only been a Warden for several months and she had only been one for several days. Who would believe them? Oh, just show them the Taint in their blood somehow? No one in their right mind would just take their word for it.

I am a Grey Warden.

Even in her head, the words rang loosely. She was no Warden. A victim of circumstance, perhaps, but no hero, no general. But really, what choice did she have? She remembered the stories, the ones her mother and Bethlisse had told her a lifetime and a half ago. For the love of Andraste, how could she live up to that?

It took time, but soon the trees began to thin. The land was still foreign to her, even though Morrigan assured them that they were getting much closer. The apostate was fascinating, as much as Lianore hated to admit it. From time to time, she had dared to wonder what life would be like outside of the Circle and here was the living result. For all of her brashness and hostility, Morrigan was a skilled fighter with abilities that Lianore could only dream of.

When it came to fighting, though, Alistair had them both beat. She had judged him too quickly, she had realized. From the little pieces she had been able to coax out of him, it was obvious he had never wanted to be a templar. The Wardens provided him an escape from a life he hadn’t chosen, just as they had for her. Years of training had prepared him for the difficult task, something that Circle life couldn’t compare to. He had realized how uncomfortable the prospect of working alongside a former-not-really-templar must have been for her, and had sworn on his life to never use his abilities against her. Mostly jokingly, she’d replied that she would only use hers if he lay bleeding on the ground. (“Wait, what do you-? Oh. Healing magic. Right.”)

Lianore smiled to herself. That night, just before the battle, didn’t seem real now.

She had her own talents, of course. Healing magic and elemental spells were useful in a pinch. Irving had been teaching her to become a knight-enchanter, a talent, she had to admit, would have been useless in dull, Circle life. She wasn’t bad at fighting, Duncan had reaffirmed that much.

There was a hollow pang in her stomach. She had known him for no longer than a month, but Duncan had been the one to save her. Without her conscription, she would have been dead; the Chantry needed blood, ironically, and she was first in line.

\---

When Lianore awoke, there was a dog in her face.

As soon as she remembered that she had a dog, this was a very pleasant surprise. Taranis barked and licked her face, eager for another day of traveling. She rose quickly after that and promptly wiped her face free of dog slobber. He watched her, tail wagging innocently.

They had been out of the Wilds for several days and having a dog to guard them at night made Lianore sleep much more soundly. He was a big dog, with a coarse hide and a habit of drooling on anyone who refused him attention. In the Circle, they weren’t allowed to keep pets and before that her family hadn’t been wealthy enough to own any animal as fine as a mabari. Despite Morrigan’s initial annoyance, the dog Lianore had rescued became a well-loved traveling companion. The gloomy apostate couldn’t complain about the meals Taranis had eagerly brought back, even when he left them in her bedroll.

There was no doubt in her mind that it was the same mabari she had helped. Alistair had assured her it was part of imprinting, but Lianore was not convinced. He had survived the Taint, just as she had. Whether or not he could sense Wardens or darkspawn through the corruption, they shared that much. Taranis was an eager, if not loud, addition to their company.

The others, Lianore noted as she pet the dog absentmindedly, were already into their morning routines. Morrigan was an early riser, keeping well to her side of the camp as much as she could. Her dark hair was in its usual, messy bun and her yellow eyes darted around her surroundings, as if she was expecting an attack while cooking breakfast. Alistair sat by himself, at least until Taranis curled himself up by his side. He had been doing better, but some days were more rough than others. Since Morrigan and Flemeth had told him about what had happened at Ostagar, he had had ups and downs. One moment he would be joking around and the next he would go silent.

“Good morning, Morrigan,” Lianore said, stretching.

“Breakfast is finished,” Morrigan said, not looking up. “We should get going within the hour, so I took it upon myself to prepare it.”

Gratefully, Lianore took a serving for herself, but once she began to take a second, Morrigan was not happy.

“By all means, give the freeloader food,” she chided. “It is not as if he has not helped around camp at all since we left.”

Lianore ignored her and sat down next to Alistair. He didn’t seem to notice her at all, even when she set the plate next to him. The campfire reflected off of his brown eyes, but they still seemed lifelessly dull. Usually, they seemed to have a light of their own. Whether he was telling a bad joke or assuring her he was okay, his eyes always gave him away.

“Alistair, you need to eat.”

He sighed and took the plate in his hands, taking several bites before setting it aside for the dog to feast on.

“Morrigan’s cooking isn’t that bad,” Lianore said, watching Taranis make quick work of his own second breakfast.

“Tis a small camp and I have ears, you know,” Morrigan called over from where she was taking down the makeshift lean-too.

He finally looked at her, his eyes painfully hollow. “I’ll be fine,” Alistair told her.

She stood and brushed off her hands on her robes. “Well, if you pass out while we’re hiking, I’m not reviving you.”

“I shan’t either,” Morrigan assured him.

Alistair didn’t respond at first, so Lianore started to pack, not looking forward to another day of uncomfortably silent traveling.

“Lianore, wait,” he blurted out.

She paused and turned to face him.

“Thank you, and you’re right, as always.”

“It took you long enough to figure that out,” she mused, “but good luck getting anything back from the dog.”

She left him wrestling with the dog for the last scraps of meat with a smile on her face as she packed.

“How much farther until we reach this village,” Lianore asked Morrigan.

“A day, perhaps more if we encounter any more distractions.”

“He’s not having an easy time, you know,” Lianore said in Alistair’s defense.

“I meant the dog,” Morrigan corrected her. “We spent half of yesterday attempting to stop him from chasing every hare in the lowlands, if you remember. But since you bring Alistair in to this, what of you? Did you not face the same challenges atop that tower?”

“He lost everyone he cared about that day.”

“You speak as if you have not lost people in your life,” Morrigan huffed.

“Let me know when we’re ready to go,” Lianore said coldly.

“As touchy as ever, even for a Circle mage.”

Everyone was already exhausted, but they managed to clear the camp and be on their way before the sun rose above the now sparse trees. Over a decade of hardly any physical exertion besides running up and down stairs, but Lianore was pleasantly glad because of how quickly she had gotten used to being on the road. Her feet still hurt most days, with cracking blisters and aching soles. It wasn’t nearly as bad as that first day when she set out, though.

“So what does an apostate do for fun? Harass the local Chasind? Chase them through the forest like rabbits?” Alistair asked, his hands firmly grasping the straps of his rucksack.

“No. More often we would just kill them,” Morrigan said bluntly.

“You know, I can never tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Which is not surprising in the least, I assure you.”

Ignoring them, Lianore pulled out the map again and traced her finger over the path they had covered. They hadn’t gone that far, not compared to the rest of Ferelden. Maybe, after several straight months of walking, they would be able to finish everything they needed to defend their homeland. Her feet cramped at the thought. She had only just located Lothering on the map when Alistair bumped against her side.

“Strategizing again, oh fearless leader?” he asked peeking over her shoulder at the worn map.

Lianore shoved him back, more annoyed than anything. “I don’t always have to be the one making decisions, you know.”  
“Naturally, it’s just I don’t make very good ones and I don’t trust her.” He nodded his head and Morrigan, who shot him an equally nasty look in return.

“So I lead by default?”  
“More or less. Look at the bright side. This way, less arguing over where we go or how we get there.”

“Less arguing. Of course.”

\---

Lianore crossed out the word she was spelling for the third time, getting ink all over her hands. When Bethli shouted, she nearly spilled the bottle down her front.

“One of those bastards did what?”

“Don’t anger them, Bethli. Please,” Jowan begged.

“I mean, I’d heard something happened, but that’s just argh!” The temperamental elf slammed her hands on the table, ruining any chance of Lianore writing neatly. “Who do they think they are? You’re just kids.”

“So are you. Please be quiet before they hear you.”

“I don’t give a nug’s ass if they hear me. They’re nothing but bullies!”

Either she hadn’t fully understood what had happened, or the full weight of it hadn’t hit her until now. Despite his best efforts, Jowan couldn’t get her to back down. Lianore tried to steer them back towards their reading lessons, but couldn’t shake the older mage’s resolve. Between the classroom incident and several more missing apprentices, she had a lot on her mind and only two people who would listen to her. After twenty minutes of shushing her any time someone, enchanter or templar, walked by, Bethli begrudgingly pulled out the book they had been copying sentences from. Their corner of the library went unnaturally silent, except for the scratching of quills and occasional huffs of frustration.

Dinner was similarly quiet that evening. Bethli hardly touched her food, arms crossed in stubborn defiance as she stared at the floor. She only ate at Lianore’s begging and even then she mostly pushed the Tranquil-cooked food around her plate.

It wasn’t until late in the night, kept awake by her own dreams, that Lianore heard the sniffling from the bunk above her. Careful to not catch the attention of the templar dozing off in the corner, Lianore crawled up to where her friend lay, curled up in a ball of coarse blankets and tears.

“Go to bed,” Bethli whispered. Her voice wavered, still on the verge of crying.

Lianore shook her head and curled up next to her, but Bethli didn’t protest.

She had never seen someone older than her cry. Papa never cried. Not when he cut his hand in the garden, not when Mama died. Allie didn’t even cry. In grief, she had only ever seen her elders grow silent and detached. Part of her was scared, to see her friend so shaken, but she also wanted to help. She wanted to hold her hand and tell her it was going to be okay, just like Bethli always did for her.

But she didn’t know what to say. Lianore couldn’t find the words because she was quite certain they didn’t exist, not on the pages she was slowly learning to read nor any string of utterances someone could gather. She did the only thing she could do, in the dark of night with a crying elf cuddled up next to her.

She stayed.

\---

Taranis was at her heels as Lianore ran over the hill, the tall grass tickling her ankles and knees. Her thick robes made movement hard, but she was damned if she wasn’t going to try.

“How does she have any energy left?” Alistair complained, dropping his pack at his feet.

“Tis nearly as surprising as you suddenly regaining the ability to speak,” Morrigan said.

Lianore drowned out their bickering as she raced to the top. Panting even more than the dog, she placed her hands on her knees to steady herself. Maybe she had overestimated her stamina. With his bounding speed, Taranis nearly knocked her over. She laughed, wiping his slobber off of her dress. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was brilliantly blue and cloudless, with only the slightest wind to rustle her hair. Red-faced and exhausted, Alistair climbed up after her.

“Morrigan said she’d wait until your done, though not nearly that politely.”

“I would expect no less,” Lianore said. “So, that’s Lothering? It looks gigantic!” She squinted at the buildings that dotted the hilly landscape beneath them.

Alistair laughed. “If this is big, Denerim is a city-state. Have you really not seen a town this size before?”

“I grew up in the Circle tower, remember?”

“But before that,” he said. “Surely you’ve seen a town before.”

“I did live outside of Denerim for a time,” Lianore said, fiddling with a long piece of grass. “But I was very young and don’t remember much else. You grew up in Redcliffe you mentioned, right? How is big is it?”

“Much larger than this piddly little farming town,” he said proudly.

She threw herself down into the grass, letting it brush against her skin. Laughing, he set his sword aside and joined her. It was relaxing and refreshing, just to take a moment’s rest. Once or twice, she swore she caught him watching her instead of the sky, but they remained silent, taking in the peaceful scenery.

When Alistair finally spoke again, he rolled on his side to face her. “How did you come to be there, in the tower? Or is that too personal a question to as a mage? I haven’t met many actually so I don’t... You know, know.”

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “We’re going to be saving Thedas together apparently, so we might as well know about each other. I honestly don’t remember much, since I was only seven or eight at the time.”

“That seems a little young to be taking children away from their families.”  
“Didn’t you say you’d been in the Chantry since you were ten?”

“Well yeah, but it’s different.”

“When it comes to mages, people don’t have that choice. Once your magic reveals itself, your family has to do what’s best for them.” She grew quiet, the sight of her father disappearing behind large wooden doors now fuzzy in her mind

Trying to coax her to a more pleasant topic, he said, “What do you like? About not being inside a tower all of the time, I mean?”

“This whole day and night thing is really fascinating.”  
“Really, though,” Alistair said.

Even though he seemed genuine, she withdrew. “It will sound silly.”  
“Can’t be any sillier than me asking invasive personal questions.”

Lianore sighed. “I like the little things, like the wind in my hair or the birds in the mornings, the sun in my face and burning my hand cooking dinner, laughing and the...”

She paused to look over at him, to make sure she wasn’t weirding him out. Instead, he was listening intently, a hand resting on his face as he lay on his side. His amber eyes stared into hers, watching her with interest.

“What’s the matter?” he asked and she realized she’d been looking at him for far too long.

She spoke quickly. “I’m just not used to this. People looking at me like I’m a person and not a mage.”  
“But you are a mage, unless that’s just a really fancy bow you carry on your back all day.”

“You know what I mean.” She sighed.

“For what it’s worth, you’re a good person,” he said, quickly adding, “and a good mage. Very good, in fact. You could definitely turn me into a frog, but you don’t. Good person, good mage.”

“You know, I don’t know of a single mage who can do that.”

“I know that! Just messing with you,” he said, but his nervous expression suggested to her that he still wasn’t sold on her lack of frog-related powers.

**Author's Note:**

> A fairly general fic I've been working on in order to delve deeper into my Warden's characterization, through at least Origins. It's about a lot of things. Lots of focus on relationships, some romantic, some platonic, but most importantly mages.


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